Turning Circle
by Clear Skies
Summary: I am wondering, Will Stanton, if this is not just a little bit wrong."
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** All characters, settings, etc. used herein are the property of Susan Cooper, and are used without permission but with great admiration for her ability to weave a beautiful, enthralling story.   
**Warnings:** Slash, some angst, lime. Short. Very short. Too short.   
  
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Lovely weather it is, outside. Lovely weather, when it's raining in my heart.   
He's out there, I know. Sitting with his girlfriend. Will and Jenny, and what a nice couple they do make. Everyone says so.   
And everyone acts like that's the way it is, and always has been. Like it was fated from the beginning. No-one _remembers_. No-one except Will...and me...   
Oh yes, I remember. I remember up on Cadfan's Way, teaching the English boy a few words of Welsh and how to say them, and how Cafall, my lost Cafall, knew you from the first moment. I remember that chase through the Lost Land, running from the Dark, always just the two of us side by side. I remember riding with you in that carriage, wishing I had been the one to throw that rose, and when I teased you about Jenny you looked at me blankly, and I felt that great surge of hope. I remember by that river, when I wound you up and you jumped on me, and for the longest time we just lay there, and you almost kissed me before the Dark broke in.   
And your hand on mine, when together we held the sword. Your touch so light, so hesitant; it said everything we didn't have time for. I always thought it'd be different, after...   
That's why I chose. _Duw_, what an idiot. _Loving bonds_, I said, and you didn't even blink. I knew I'd forget, but I hoped _you_ might remember.   
Now I know what he meant, my father, when he bent to say goodbye. _Nil vigilium solus_, he told me. _He shall not watch alone_. I don't know what he did, then, but somehow when Merriman wiped our memories...mine stayed.   
  
  
It's so beautiful out here, out on the hillside, looking down over the green valley. The mist has covered everything with a fine net of dew - spiders' webs like skeins of diamonds, crystal balls on blades of grass.   
He puts his arm around my shoulders awkwardly. "Jane..."   
"Ssh." Just for a moment I'd like to feel like a normal couple, just for a moment. Because we're not going to _be_ a couple much longer.   
He sits in silence for a few seconds, looking not at the view or at me but down at the ground. Then he takes a deep breath, and I steel myself for what I know is coming.   
"Jane...it's over. I'm sorry."   
That's it. Then he gets up and walks off, back towards the cottage. As if the problem's obvious, as if I should know exactly what he means.   
Oh yes, Will Stanton. I know what the problem is. I know why you pull away every time I go to kiss you, though you try to hide it. I know why you still introduce me as 'my friend Jane'. I _know_.   
Even if I didn't, Barney does. Woman's intuition's no match for my brother's. Takes one to know one, he'd say. I always laughed at him, but it turns out he was right all along.   
Still, that doesn't stop it hurting.   
_"It's all right, Jenny, it's all right..."_   
Bran slides onto the bench next to me, a gentle hand dropping onto my shoulder. "There now, what's wrong? Here," he rummages in a pocket before proffering a carefully-folded tissue.   
I hadn't even realised I was crying, but I mutter my thanks and take it from him, scrubbing angrily at my eyes. "Sorry. I'm such an idiot."   
He tilts his head after Will. "There a problem?"   
A hollow laugh slips out before I can stop it. "You could say that."   
His strange, tawny eyes are full of concern as he stuffs his tissue back up his sleeve anyhow. "Anything I can do?"   
I feel like laughing again - this day just keeps getting better and better - but it catches in my throat. Maybe this isn't _my_ day, but that doesn't mean it can't be _someone's_. "Yes. Go to him."   
He looks at me blankly, and _then_ I laugh, releasing all the grief and self-recrimination. "God, you're both as blind as each other. I've seen the looks you give him, and the way he looks at you." I catch his face between his hands, staring into those startled tiger's eyes, surprised by my own forcefulness. "_Go to him._ He wasn't ever meant for me."   
There. I've said my piece. I can't do any more. "I'm going back to the Evans's."   
  
  
I watch her set off down the mountainside, smile on her face, wrapping her coat around her shoulders. What did she mean, the way he looks at me? _Iesu Crist_, could I really have missed something like that?   
My hand traces my cheek where she touched me. Surely not - but she seemed so _sure_...   
I _want_ to believe it, oh yes. It took me so long to fall in love with him, that quiet English boy who never made the Evil Eye sign against me. Who never cared that I was different. Who knew me before I knew myself. Ah, Will Stanton, and you thought I had forgotten.   
The door to the cottage is still half-open; I push it aside, knowing already where he's gone. He may be sleeping in my Da's room, just for these few days, but he knows where he belongs.   
Sure enough, there he is, sat on the end of my bed with his head in his hands.   
"_Sut 'dach chi?_"   
  
Will looked up unwillingly, forcing a weak smile onto his face. "I'm fine."   
Bran leaned nonchalantly against the wall, folding his arms and crossing one ankle over the other. "Jenny went off back down to your auntie's. Everything okay?"   
"No." Will pushed his hair back out of his eyes, looking tired. "We broke up."   
Bran raised a white eyebrow. "I'm sorry."   
A wry grin. "_Diolch yn fawr_."   
"So?" Bran's grin was genuine. "We'll make a Welsh boy of you yet."   
Will could barely muster a smile in return. "I doubt it."   
The other boy slipped his dark glasses out of his pocket, toying with them, not meeting Will's eyes. "You've always been pretty close, haven't you?"   
"Hm?"   
"You and Jane." Bran's expression didn't change, but his voice betrayed a hint of strain. What he said next almost knocked Will to the floor.   
"I remember how worried you were when she was in danger. When the _afanc_ came."   
  
Horrified, for a second all Will could do was stare; then, with great deliberation, he stretched out his arm, all five fingers spread stiffly. Bran recoiled instinctively, shrinking from that all-too-familiar gesture as Will began to mutter ominously under his breath. He felt a tingling begin at the back of his neck and tried to run, but he was held in place, unable to move. All his precious memories were about to drain away like so much dirty ditchwater.   
Suddenly, the tingle began to move. It flowed down his back, making him shiver, and then down his legs. Will's eyes widened and he swore, bringing his other hand around and speaking louder - but it was all in vain. The power simply earthed itself, flowing through the albino boy as if he were a lightning rod, unable to touch him.   
Slowly, as Bran realised what was happening, a sly smile spread across his face. He shook himself like a dog, free from the hold that had been put on him; that spell had shattered. Then he walked forward, advancing on the speechless Old One, their eyes locked.   
"Oh no, Will, not this time. Not this time or the last. _It won't work_, see? My father saw to that. I remember _everything_."   
Will's mouth opened and shut helplessly as strong hands took him by the shoulders. Bran pushed him down onto the bed, firmly, still talking in that easy, conversational tone. "Oh yes, I remember how it was. _Brackish?_, you said, and I said _no, it's perfectly good_. And then you jumped on me and held me down, just like I'm doing to you now, _sais bach_." Will shivered as the Welsh boy brought his face down till they were inches apart, his breath sweet and warm on the brown-haired boy's cheek. "And if the Rider hadn't walked in right at that moment, who knows what you might have done, eh?"   
Will was struggling to breathe, but he managed to choke out, "W-what?"   
Bran chuckled, his fingers stroking gently along Will's collarbone. "Don't you play the innocent with me, Will Stanton. See, if I can remember that much, don't you think I can remember...where you touched me?"   
His hands slipped easily down Will's chest, deft fingers unbuttoning his shirt. "If I'm not very much mistaken, it was somewhere just about...here..."   
His touch was light, teasing on Will's flushed skin; Will gasped, his stomach muscles automatically flinching away. "Ticklish, hm?" murmured Bran, trailing a finger down to Will's navel and grinning at the response.   
  
With a sudden surge, Will shoved the white-haired boy off him and pinned him against the wall, breathing heavily. "Damn you, why didn't you_ say_ something? Four years and not a word. Four years!"   
Shaken, Bran pushed back, almost sending Will off the edge of the bed. "Why didn't I say something?_ Dammo_, Will, look at what you tried to do when I_ did_!"   
Will scrabbled for balance before launching himself back at Bran. "What did you _expect_? You weren't supposed to remember!"   
They grappled for a moment, precariously balanced on the end of the bed, before toppling to the floor.   
"Ow!" Will rubbed his head where he had caught the floor a crack; Bran, quick to press home his advantage, grabbed him by the wrists and pinned him to the floor. "Here we are again, eh?" he murmured quietly, all the anger gone from his voice. "The circle turns, and this time it turns for us..."   
His voice dropped on the last word, and so did his head, dropping towards Will's until with a soundless shock their lips met.   
  
For a moment that was all there was - just the pressure of Bran's cool, dry lips against Will's warm, moist ones. Then with a gasp Will surrendered, opening his mouth as Bran's tongue flickered against his lips and dived through.   
Will's hands clutched at Bran's shoulders, his shirt flapping loose as Bran's tongue explored his mouth thoroughly, hungrily. The Welsh boy's nimble-fingered hands slipped beneath the waistband of Will's jeans, hunting for the soft, soft skin beneath, eliciting a moan from the brown-haired boy.   
Then Will slid Bran's shirt over his head and pulled him down, and for a long time neither of them spoke...   
  
  
Bran cracked one eye open to find Will standing at the window, clad in nothing but his underwear, staring out over the misty Welsh valley. Pushing sweat-soaked white hair back out his eyes, he raised himself on one bare elbow.   
"What is it?"   
When Will turned from the window, tears glimmered unshed in the corners of his eyes. "I...I was thinking about what you said. About the circle turning. It's true...the circle turns, and maybe it'll take us away from each other again...I can't stop it, Bran, I can't. What if it does?   
Bran fixed Will with a serious gaze, tawny eyes holding chocolate brown. "Four years I waited, _cariad_. Four years I shan't see again. I'm not giving you up that easy." Then he laughed aloud. "You spent too long up on Cader Idris, boyo. Come here, you poet, you mad English _dewin_, come here and kiss me."   
And, grinning for the first time in ages, Will complied. 


	2. Chapter 2

He looks...pensive, somehow. Like he's musing on what we've just done - or worse, questioning it.   
Whatever - he definitely looks slightly...absent. Not all there, my mother would say, and she'd be right. He _wasn't_ all there. Oh, he did it well - as far as I know, and I've no experience to judge - but it was like he was holding himself back. It was good, but it wasn't tears and roses and the earth moving beneath us. It wasn't perfect, when that was everything it _should've_ been.   
And now he lies there, the white sheet draped over the curve of his bare hip, chewing on his bottom lip like a schoolboy caught doing something bad.   
  
One of us has to break the silence, but I can't think of anything to say. I can't think of anything but him, lying there with still-damp hair falling in his eyes and his achingly familiar body exposed for all the world to see. He's so white it dazzles - not the sickly white of illness or the bone white of death, but the creamy white of skin that my hands know too well. His white-blonde hair, streaked dark with sweat, covers one of his eyes; the other, tawny-yellow like an owl's, stares off into space as though I don't even exist.   
I flick my eyes to the heap of crumpled clothing at the foot of the bed, my green shirt almost hidden under his black one and black jeans. I hate the way he dresses to emphasise his difference - not because I hate his difference, but because I hate that he feels he has to. Not that all-over black doesn't make him look good, but he's got a light blue T-shirt and faded blue jeans that he looks perfect in. Or the dark blue jumper that he sometimes pulls over that stark black shirt. He even owns - though I've only once seen him wear it - a beautiful ensemble, white long-sleeved T-shirt and white jeans, that accentuates every line of his body and makes him look like a pure white flame, so stunning that it takes my breath away.   
  
Bran pushes his hair out of his eyes, looking at me almost warily from under his white lashes. "You're very quiet all of a sudden."   
Why do I feel so awkward? Less than a minute ago I was in his arms; now I daren't even touch him. "Speak for yourself."   
He looks down at the bed between us, one finger tracing idle patterns on the damp sheet. "Did you...enjoy it, then?"   
Platitudes come leaping to my tongue - _yes, it was perfect, incredible, I love you_; slower, the truth forces its way through - _no, I didn't, and neither did you - why?_ I evade instead, answering a question with a question. "Is something wrong?"   
He looks up at me, then away, the fine hairs at the back of his neck shining golden in the lamplight. "I...I think..." Then he turns back, a forced smile slipping into place. "Wrong? _Iesu Crist_, no! Nothing's wrong! After all," he runs a hand seductively along my leg; his fingers are cold, "you are quite the lover, Will Stanton."   
I colour, only half-believing; he shifts closer, sliding his arms around me, the side of his face pressed into my neck. One leg hooks over mine, then he pushes down against me, his breath damp against my skin. "Fuck me, Will..."   
I'm halfway inside him before I realise what's going on. "No - I'll hurt you."   
He pushes down harder, still not looking at me, his voice half-pleading. "Won't...fuck me, Will, _please_..."   
Instinct takes over as I slip all the way inside and begin to move - but something still isn't right. He lies completely still, his body taut and unresponsive under my hands. His arms are loose around me, barely touching, as though he's afraid. Gone is the bravura of earlier, the easy lover who knew everywhere to touch me, and in his place this frightened boy I don't even know.   
I pull out after less than a minute, making him shudder and cry out. His hair is in his eyes again; I smooth it away, trying to recapture some of the emotion from that moment by the river, trying to sound loving and concerned as I ask again, "What's wrong?"   
Bran tries to force a smile again, but it dies on his lips. His yellow eyes are tired; so is his voice, when at last he speaks. Quiet and formal, like he's talking to a teacher or a stranger, not his lover.   
"I am wondering, Will Stanton, if this is not just a little bit wrong."   
  
"Wrong?"   
He won't look at me. "That's what I said." The formality is even stronger, his accent more marked, as if he's trying to put distance between us.   
"I don't understand." I reach out, wanting to stroke his hair, tilt his chin up so I can _look_ at him; he shies away.   
"It feels...dirty."   
My heart drops out of my chest; my stomach turns over. Dirty? But he's the one who...and... _Dirty?_   
He looks up at last, meeting my gaze with apologetic golden eyes. "Sounds stupid, doesn't it? A minute ago I was begging for it, and now..." He flaps a hand wordlessly.   
"And now?" I feel horrible asking it, and I hate the tone of my voice, but I can't help it. What went so wrong, in between him calling me _cariad_ and telling me this?   
"My Da won't like it." Simple words, so simple I'd laugh, were it not for the tears glimmering as yet unshed on his lower lashes. And somehow they're not so simple after all - he's not just talking about his father, but about everyone and everything around him. No wonder he thinks it's dirty, when his father and his friends and chapel tell him so. Suddenly there's bile in my throat and anger in my heart - how _dare_ they! They call him a freak already, for his pale skin and yellow eyes and white hair, when all he looks is lovely. They make the sign against the Evil Eye, when he was the greatest part of the greatest good ever done on this earth. They tell him what he should look like, and what he should do, and now they want to tell him who he should be...   
All the anger comes boiling out of me in a single burst, so vehement, so forceful that he looks at me with wide eyes. "For god's sake, Bran, be yourself for once, not the person they made you be! Forget your father, forget your friends, forget all those...those _idiots_ at chapel!" I catch his startled face between my hands, brushing white hair back from his temple with my thumb. "_I don't care._" Then, softer, "I don't care, Bran Davies, Bran pen Dragon. I don't care what they say, what _anyone_ says. This isn't wrong." I swallow, barely holding back the tears - of rage, of fear, of love. "_Loving bonds, cariad._ Outside everything. As right as sun rising, as tides turning."   
  
Bran draws a deep, shuddering breath, then lets it go, tightening his arms around me and pressing his face into my neck. Slightly muffled, his voice comes up to me, choked as though he's trying not to cry.   
"Pen Dragon, you called me then. I thought I wasn't any more. Merriman said..."   
I squeeze him in response, stroking his hair gently with one hand. "I...I don't know. Merriman said you wouldn't remember, and he was wrong about that, right? Maybe...maybe Arthur found some way." God, I never realised how much it meant to him, to finally _know_ who he was, and why. To finally _be_ someone. "I...don't know why..."   
  
  
"Why?"   
The question was quiet, not strident or demanding, and yet the tone said _this must be answered, for I will not leave it lie_.   
Arthur's mouth curved, ever so slightly. "Why what, my lion?"   
Merriman dropped down beside him in the grass, folding his legs underneath him with the ease of one long accustomed to his own body. Once settled, he waved a hand at the scrying bowl, causing ripples to flutter across the image of two boys in each other's arms. "Why did you make me a liar, my lord?"   
"A liar, old friend?" Arthur was now smiling, a secret smile that said _not for that reason only, but I enjoyed it nonetheless_. "Not just for the fun of it, I assure you. There is..." He paused, as if searching for words; the smile disappeared like the sun behind a cloud. "There is something, something I cannot see, and it lays its hand upon them both. I have a feeling," he waved his hand in turn, and the image faded into the ripples of the inky water, "that they will need the strength that they can draw from such a bond."   
Merriman's face was inscrutable, as ever, the dark eyes hooded beneath the great white brows, but his voice was strained. "I can feel it too, my lord, but...there is something else. That bond," his face creased as if in pain, "may bring them grief as well as happiness."   
Arthur sighed. "Well I know that, but I had no choice. Will must face a trial, though I cannot tell what it may be. Without Bran by his side, in his full power, he would fail; the strain of taking it alone would break him. There was no other way."   
Impassive again, Merriman spread his fingers towards the surface of the water, and spoke softly in the lilting tongue that was the Old Speech. The water creased as though ruffled by a breeze, and another image formed - a girl, sitting on the end of a bed with her face in her hands, her long dark hair falling unheeded around her. "There is another who has already come to grief, my lord. Will you spare a thought for her?"   
Arthur turned his face away, and there was pain in his voice. "I have thought of little else, and the fault is indeed mine. Yet she too must face her trial, and though we cannot help her, she may draw her strength best in times of sorrow."   
Beside him, Merriman looked with compassion upon the desolate girl. "She needs no sorrow to bring her strength."   
Turning back, Arthur stretched out a hand as if to touch the image, then withdrew it, his face hardening. "Rather the grief of one than that of three."   
Merriman stood abruptly, walking quickly away. His face betrayed his thoughts, but the king was too busy staring into the scrying bowl to read it; instead they lingered unspoken inside his head.   
_This could be the greatest mistake that we have made since our failure to recognise Blodwen Rowlands for what she was. Powerless as we now are, the fate of the world may rest upon the shoulders of the five who remain - and not even the greatest of us can see what must happen. Which way has my lord tipped the scales?_   
Pulling his cloak more tightly around him, he shook his head as if to clear it, and headed back to the silver-circled city of the Light, his purposeful stride taking him straight to the tallest and slenderest of all the towers. _There is one who might give counsel. I will seek her out._   
  
  
I let him cry, hot salt tears burning my throat, until slowly he gets himself under control. He props himself up on one elbow, still sniffing, tear-tracks glistening on his pale skin, and pushes his hair out of his eyes with that familiar gesture. Just to see him do that lifts my heart - it means he's himself again, shaken but not broken.   
"Will..." and then he stops trying to speak, but instead reaches out and cups my cheek in his hand, leaning forward to press his lips tentatively, gently, fleetingly against mine. I wrap my arms back around him; he strokes his thumb across my lips.   
"I...love you," he whispers, sounding almost surprised with himself - not a declaration, but a wondering realisation. Then, louder, "I love you", as if affirming; then he crooks his arm around my neck and pulls me in close, till I'm staring into his lovely golden eyes from a distance of less than six inches.   
"I love you, Will Stanton," he says, eyes alight with laughter, and I laugh with him as he draws me down and kisses me daringly, his hair falling into his face; I reach up and brush it away, my fingers lingering on his warm skin.   
"I love you too, Bran Davies." 


End file.
